


Wild

by Avaya



Series: Wild [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Exhibitionism, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8589745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avaya/pseuds/Avaya
Summary: What one thinks they know about another is not always what it appears to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This came about due to Marian Hill's _Wild_. Love that one and highly suggest listening to it (or at least the beat).

Generalizations are necessary in order to live one’s life. Otherwise, people would have to stressfully contemplate or investigate if every restaurant had a restroom, every human male had a Y chromosome, or if a child and not a little green alien or some horrid monster is developing inside of a pregnant woman.

Bruce Wayne reclined against the plush Italian leathered sofa, arms braced on the back, relishing the pulsing rhythms that beat in time with his heart. He wore a white silk Armani shirt, black trousers and dress shoes as well as his trademark bored expression though he is anything but. Patiently swirling his glass of vodka with ice clinking against the sides, his shrewd gaze peered into the darkness, sifting through the dark shapes huddled within.

Isn’t it clear? He is currently stalking someone who’d disappeared thirty minutes ago within the throng of people.

It is their game. He loved the hunt and chase, the possibility of being denied if he couldn’t find them in time—though that _never_ happened—and the kinks they indulged.

Bruce never obtained someone like this before. This one is the longest he’d been with _anyone_ and long-term relationships weren’t even attached to his name. But this one…this one is different.

Clubbers cast him various glances, but he ignored them. He appreciated that they chose _Voyeur_ for their nightly entertainment and hoped they would return, but none of them are interesting. None could sate his debauched desires. Only one person could.

His cock shifted then and he took a sip, enjoying the burning of his throat.

A flash of green strobe light illuminated a particular spot on the dance floor in front of him at the exact moment that the mass of flailing limbs parted as if he willed it. He now obtained an unobstructed view of a sensuous dancer, hips rocking to the pounding bass, arms swaying rhythmically. He danced alone because _everyone_ knew that he wasn’t to be touched. 

A crème silk shirt barely covered his torso, scarcely hiding taut unmarred butterscotch skin. The first few buttons are purposely left undone to give off a teasing seductive edge. Hard nipples jabbed at the fabric, begging to be freed so that they could be kissed, sucked, bitten.

His gaze trailed down, blood rushing to a familiar part of his anatomy.

Snug trousers clung to hips that he’d dragged the edges of teeth across. It hugged a voluptuous ass that he loved pounding, obscuring the clenching pink hole that he wet his tongue across when given the chance. The barest outline of a thick cock could be seen over stretched fabric, the swollen length he swallowed lovingly suffocating underneath.

Bruce’s own now strained against its own constraints.

He slid his eyes up. They locked on the alluring sky-blues dancing with plenty of emotions, illuminated by the wave of lustrous dark curls that Bruce ran fingers through or pulled when so inclined. The man gave a daring smirk replete with a show of teeth. Then he winked.

 _Not for long_ , Bruce thought, thumb twisting the knob on the remote hidden in his other hand to its highest degree. The man jerked, eyes widened in surprise, lips parting to let out a delicious moan that drifted to him over the music.

A Cheshire grin slid on his face.

Assumptions about a concept as complex as humans, though, ensured mistakes. Foolish notions bred from ignorance or a severe lack of education have led to genocide, slavery, bigotry, and more that currently taint the world he inhabited. Crucial clues are bypassed in favor of what would sate the individual.

For instance, most thought of Bruce Wayne as a self-serving multi-billionaire who held little interest besides making his mark in many avenues including both genders. Many people _assumed_ this due to what they have read without experiencing the man himself. And even if they did the latter, they didn’t truly get to know him since he hid his true self— _Batman_ —from most.

He stood, slipping the remote into his pocket, finishing his drink before he sauntered in the direction of his beau. The glass is gently extricated from him by a passing topless red-head with sizeable breasts. Ever perceptive that Veronica. He stored a reminder to tip her a thousand.

The waves of bodies are still separated, allowing him easy access to the man struggling to continue his lithe movements. Pairs of eyes followed him but he only focused on one. He swept a hand over his mouth, stalking his helpless prey as he threatened to lose his composure.

It is just like how many individuals _generalized_ that Clark Kent is a modest demure type of lover, one who preferred to make love instead of fucking hard and passionate. Why? Because he is from Smallville, Kansas with—another assumption from many—a ruggedly conservative upbringing and long lapses in his dating history.

Bruce easily slid behind him, gracefully moving in tandem, grasping him about the waist with an arm, feeling the quivering of the other man due to the vibrating butt plug nestled in his ass. The other went about his shoulders to grasp his chin, turning his face to him as he captured his mouth. Hard.

How surprised would everyone be if they were to find out that _both_ didn’t live up to the expectations? What if they were privy to the knowledge that Clark is an exhibitionist? Or that Bruce would happily fuck him anywhere and every which way no matter who saw because Bruce’s dick belonged solely to him?

He pressed his erection against the crack of his ass to reveal his thoughts. The response is a shiver with a louder moan this time, accompanied with Clark rubbing against him.

“Nearly missed you.” He whispered in his ear, pulling on his shirt to remove them from his trousers.

 “I had to make you work for it.” Clark managed to sputter out between mewls. Then his breath caught as Bruce slipped a hand beneath his waistband.

He took hold of the hot swollen length that pulsed in his palm, feeling the leaking pre-cum soak onto it. Bruce’s fingers became lose in thick curls that he held fast, Clark’s hand on his waist while the other joined him underneath his boxers. Their tongues latched on, bodies still grinding to the heady bass.

Weren’t they a sight to see? He knew it because some people around them had stopped dancing, drinking, talking to catch sight of them. That’s the point of _Voyeur_ after all. Plenty of exhibitions posed around the club and people could even join if they so desired…for a hefty price. Private rooms are nestled off to the side that only activated via credit card. It isn't unusual to see some of his guests frantically rutting against the walls or in the bathrooms if they wanted. It certainly made up for the price of entrance. Not many people had a hundred dollars to spend _nightly_.

There were only two rules at _Voyeur_ though that everyone understood quickly. No one dwelled in the center area no matter how much they offered to pay. It is reserved for the owner of the club and whoever he fancied. It hadn’t seen much use until a couple of years ago. And even though it now is used infrequently, people still couldn’t place who them. It is because they came _after_ everyone is a drunken mess and left _before_ the lights came on. Even _if_ they knew who he is, no one had any way of knowing that the rumors circulating about Bruce Wayne's male paramour involved a talented but humble journalist by the name of Clark Kent. 

The second is more serious: _No one_ touched his lover. Committing such an act entailed an immediate barring from the club for life. It helped create a mystical allure of _Voyeur_ in which people wondered what his lover did or had that enthralled him so to keep himself from making more money and impose harsh restrictions. But honestly, it is simply an aspect of control.

 _He_ is the only one who touches Clark in any amorous manner. Everyone could watch and be envious, but _no one_ could partake.

 “I want to take you here.” Bruce growled as Clark’s eyes flared with interest.

It is time. He could barely contain himself. They came earlier than usual—when people could be merely tipsy instead of woozy drunk—because he wanted to have Clark in his bed for the rest of night, calling in to Perry in the morning while he fucked him from behind. 

“I want to fuck you on the couch. Hear you scream my name to tell everyone to whom you belong. You want that, baby?”

Clark nodded feverishly, trying to seize his mouth again, moaning in despair at each futile attempt. But he isn’t done. Clark needed to know the terms.

“I’m telling you now that I’m _not_ going to stop.” He breathed hard, achingly wanting to rip down their pants and force himself inside of him while standing. “I don’t care if they throw the lights on and the whole club is watching my dick fuck you raw, we’re _not_ stopping. I don’t care if they find out who we are or even if your boss is here. Your ass is _staying_ bent over and you’re going to take _all_ of my cum and cock.”

“ _Yes_.” It came out so whiny and needy. It sent a thrilling sensation through him, stimulating him more than he thought possible.

The parted waves closed behind them like the rivers of the Nile as Bruce none-too-gently dragged Clark via the arm about his waist to his private seating area. Being the master of discipline he is, he sensed his loss of control, all of his carefully constructed defenses giving way to instant gratification to appease what Sigmund Freud called the _Ego_.

Meanwhile, Clark is busy undoing their zippers one handed, moaning as he succeeded pulling Bruce’s cock from its confines.

Bruce growled as they reached the seat, capturing his mouth ferociously again. Buttons flew, pinging along the dance floor or onto other people as he tore open Clark’s shirt, pushing it past his broad shoulders. Clark still held him fast, pumping furiously while shrugging out of it, panting desperately into his mouth.

He isn't aware of how Clark maneuvered onto the couch, ass against his crotch with their tongues still locked over his shoulder. He didn’t perceive when he pushed his trousers past that tight ass or even recollected digging between his crack to remove the still buzzing vibrator from a gasping hole.

He recalled bouts of clarity that involved instances of kneeling to run his tongue along Clark’s hairy entrance and licking his sensitive perineum. Or nuzzling his balls while scissoring him deeply to open him up.

What he _did_ know is that he briefly gained consciousness in his fog-addled mind at the _worst_ time possible. He held those lovely hips tight while he pushed past that ring of muscle into sweltering heat, his cock choking at its intensity. Clark _screamed_ , loud enough to get people’s attention and make them realize what is happening at the forbidden section.

And then he lost it—fell back into the daze where he saw nothing but Clark’s knees pressed into the cushions, legs spread for him to comfortably get between, a blissful look thrown back at him.

Bruce buried his face against his neck as he brutally pummeled into Clark, driving the other man’s body into the couch with each fierce thrust. Every _scream_ , every arch back into him made him sob in pleasure. A hand flew to his ass, squeezing him hard enough to hurt, _demanding_ that Bruce let go and senselessly fuck him.

He happily obliged.

Bruce isn’t even dimly aware that most eyes resided on them. It is something he counted on because _Clark_ liked when people watched him go at it with Bruce. It excited _Clark_ to see potentially aroused faces as he indulged a cock that seemed specifically proportioned for him. It didn’t exactly get him off—that was all thanks to Master Bruce—but _Clark_ enjoyed a crowd just as Superman enjoyed the adulation of the many.

He just loved attention.

But Bruce couldn’t care less if anyone saw. In public or private, the puckering pink rim that his cock glided against would only be receiving _his_ attention. Just as it had for the previous four years and with increasing fervor this year past.

His shirt clung to his drenched skin as he bit down on any part of Clark he could reach: his exposed neck and shoulders. Fingers tangled in locks to twist his head around so that he could catch his mouth again, mumbling words only meant for his ears.

“I love you, Clark. God, I love you. _Look_ at me, damn it. I _fucking_ love you.”

A mess of incoherency tumbled from his lover, sea-foam eyes ablaze with the intense _love_ , _affection_ , _adoration_ they both felt for the other. Bruce couldn’t make sense of it, didn’t need to. The message is as crystal clear as Bruce is of Clark jacking off furiously, ready to coat their loveseat in his spunk.

_Me too, baby. Me too._

His hard thrusts never let up as he continued waxing loving phrases in dulcet tones. His nails dug into his skin and hair with every sharp mewl he wrung out. Balls smacked against firm cheeks, out of synch with the drumming bass surrounding them, but they were going too fast and heavy for the track anyway.

He never wanted it to stop: the muscles clamping down on his cock with the severest intention of keeping him captive, the throaty gasps expelled in the form of his name from those full lips, their bodies moving in one fluid motion.

But he felt the warmth blooming in his lower abdomen, the sharp coiling that preceded his release. Clark knew it too, blue eyes lit with overwhelming satisfaction, pushing his body against him with his mouth parted.

Bruce thrust his tongue into him, roughly grabbing him about the waist so that his back is flush against his chest. Clark threw an arm around his neck to deepen their kiss. Bruce scrabbled for a hold on Clark’s cock as a hand flew to take hold of that rugged jaw once more, both men jerking Clark furiously.

A sharp cry erupted from Clark then, so forceful that his head slammed against his shoulder. His eyes were lidded with pleasure, his body taut as was his hold on Bruce and he _knew_ before he saw what was about to happen.

Clark’s body trembled furiously as he gushed in thick streaming arches. Even in the semi-darkness, Bruce could see his cum tastefully hosing the leather seat and _over_ it—onto the patrons of _his_ fine establishment. He almost felt a need to lick run his tongue along the splotches to make a _mess_ and warn those who were lucky enough to be cummed on that it was the only taste of Clark they would get. 

But then his own line of tension broke when he caught Clark’s sated face, his adoring gaze, his murmured plea breathed into his ear.

“ _In_ me, Bruce. Deep in me.”

A final push in and he exploded inside of him, vision nearly whiting out due to the force or his intense emotions or maybe the stranglehold that Clark’s ass had on him. It went on for hours which were truly seconds, but it didn’t matter. His cock is being spent inside a man with his eyes closed, _concentrating_ on his cum shooting deep into his ass.

Long black lashes finally lifted after an eternity and Bruce peered deeply into electric blues that mirrored his own. His chest tightened, unsure of what exactly caused it but knowing that it had to do with the feeling they both assuredly had: a line had been crossed. But what changed?

A thumb absent-mindedly stroked the outline of his strong jaw and his gaze drifted to the barely open mouth. He found himself leaning in, hearing the sped up breaths that cascaded along his cheek as he neared. Bruce stilled inches from those pouty lips, eyes trailing upwards to catch hold of another pair. They watched him intently, not acquiescing or refusing.

Which enabled Bruce to make the decision. This time, the kiss is slow and languorous.

~*~*~*~

“What the _fuck_?”

Oliver Queen nearly gasped out, once hazy and bleary eyes due to a mixture of tequila and fellatio now alert and focused. Even the two beautiful women lavishing every inch of his cock couldn’t deter him. He had thrown his head back as his _Cleo_ patra deep-throated him and caught a view of two beautiful figures on a couch, fucking deeply with no thought of anyone else or intention of stopping. If he concentrated just enough, he could hear the throaty moans the one being pounded into made.

The alluring Asian with small perky breasts ran a hand along his thigh, trying to catch his attention. She succeeded, however briefly, and he realized that she stared in the same direction.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

How her soft voice carried over the music, he couldn’t fathom. But he nodded.

_Understatement of the year, babe._

“They’re the main attraction.” She continued with a lewd smile. “So many people come _just_ to watch them.”

“How often are they here?” He didn’t mean to shout, but he wanted to ensure his question is voiced. “How long?”

“About twice a week. They don’t stay long.” She pursed those luscious glossy lips before licking her upper lip. She’d thrown the couple another glance. “But when they come, most people focus on them. Who could blame them?”

Oliver could see the truth in it. Most of the clubgoers are still dancing, but almost _all_ of the attention is given to the two men rutting.

The interesting part is that they weren’t in a dark corner of the club or even somewhere that could be considered private. They were in the _center_ , in a descended rotund section cordoned off for the _owner_ and his chosen dessert who, the rumor goes, no one knew. No one is permitted to sit in the area which he found out the hard way when he was thrown out. But people are allowed to be _around_ the area, even pressing up against the couches. It’s there where the crowd is thickest.

His private area near a wall, a small section on the sidelines, gave him a perfect view of the performance. . Okay, so he commandeered a spot on a couch that he shared with another couple, a man balls deep inside a buxom brunette that expertly rode his lap. He could have paid five hundred for a private room, but they are mainly used for people who had something to hide like illicit affairs or just liked their privacy. Not to mention with his short refractory period, after he finished with these two, he’d be out hunting for another dripping pussy. Money is no object and his affairs don't dampen it, but he remembered blowing through nearly five grand one night on various sundries.

He isn't the only one with a prime spot for the action though. Damn near everyone is able to catch a glimpse of the two robust beauts below. Their placement enabled every patron the ability to watch almost as if they craved. Gazing at them made him wonder if he shouldn’t switch up and try a guy for once. Maybe a transwoman before he segued into the land of the tit-less. Best of both worlds, right? He _is_  an equal opportunity kind of fucker.

 _Voyeur._ Now he understood the name. A place where one could watch many people indulge in what they couldn’t on their day to day, where their fantasies played out and _no one_ judged them for it. Because they were all in the same yacht riding the same ocean waves.

Small fingers played with his balls and he could distinctly see that her others dived between her folds. The other woman paid her no mind, enjoying having his thick pink rod to herself.

Damn. Every one of his senses were being deliciously assaulted. He could almost _taste_ that pussy.

“But it doesn’t matter, baby.” She giggled, bringing a finger glistening with her own wetness into her mouth as if she’d read his mind. “Only Cleo and I do, right?”

Then she ran her tongue along his thick shaft.

It _did_ matter though. Because these aren’t two random men driving up liquor sales and club entrances.

He _knew_ them. And what he saw is…incredible. Or unorthodox. He isn’t sure which. Get back to him when he has the full story.

Because _Clark Kent_ wouldn’t ever _fuck_ —and that’s what they were doing. Nothing soft or sensual is going on, but a raw hard fuck with a monster cock eagerly pounding—in a _public_ place. No matter if this i _s_ a sex club.

And _Bruce Wayne_? The unhinged nigh psychotic tightly wound _Batman_ that bitched with his superior attitude? _He_  is making his friend come undone and causing those cock-throbbing sounds to burst from him? _He_ owned _the_ singular most successful hook-up spots in all of the Western world?

So he continued to watch, disbelieving as Clark’s head rested on Bruce’s shoulder, Bruce biting down his neck while his hips snapped forward to drive his cock deep inside of him.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Everyone knew Oliver: how noncommittal he truly is and even though he had Dinah Lance in his life, if she didn’t want him to cheat behind her back, she’d have to be complacent with him blowing off some steam with various other flavors. He'd been honest and upfront about it.

They all knew that for him being with one woman for too long is snoresville which is a tip of the hat for his lovely lady and her patience. He needed some variety and spice in his life every now and then: a bit of an Oriental twist with a splash of African Queen. Tight holes _so_ wet, _so_ good that they made men eager for a consistently hard cock.

No one would be surprised that he frequently visited one of the raunchiest sex clubs in New York. It served exactly what he desired and never disappointed. His nights went swell each time that another visit isn't required for another few weeks or so. It's a vast improvement to every other day.

What could he say? He _is_ a sex addict and that made relationships—and marriage—near impossible though he somehow manages.

But these two? These guys who are damn near uncomplimentary in almost every way? It blew his mind on so many levels. He is seeing things that he _didn’t_ know about them, that _didn’t_ match up with the personal profiles he’d made of them—the innocent rural boyscout and that condescending asshole. It caused him to review any conversation that _might_ have belied any hint, but he could drum up none.

Questions sifted through his thoughts.

They are into _men_?

Clark fucked in front of _people_?

No protection?

They are into _each other_?

Admittedly, the latter isn’t much of a stretch—though at first Oliver discounted his friend Clark’s belief that Bruce and he were getting along. That man has  _zero_ friends or so he thought—but yet and still.

As they came together, Oliver realized he’d never seen a more a gorgeous sight to behold. Clark is abreast of Bruce, both bringing Clark to ecstasy as he spilled on the couch. He cringed as quite a few men rubbed their hard-ons through the fabric or whipped themselves out at the scene, getting themselves off. Anger took hold when a woman near them swabbed her tongue along her chin and a blond barely legal kid sucked off a finger, both enraptured with Clark.

 _That’s_ why the area is so condensed. People wanted to be cummed on and closest to the action as well as the finale. What kind of fresh hell is this and how come he hadn’t ever noticed it before?

Oliver watched them kiss over Clark’s shoulder, oblivious to all in the strobe-lit room, still pleasing the crowd around them by palming Clark’s cock gingerly. His heart thumped feverishly.

He then knew that this is deeper than what he first suspected and he’d be damned if Bruce-Fucking-Wayne is going to _use_ his best friend in the grand scheme of his overwhelming delusion. He knew how the man operated and that Clark would _never_ be first.

Gotham. Batman. His mission. They all came before Clark. What wrenched his heart is the undeniable fact that Oliver _knew_ that Clark knew this…and he still remained dutifully at Bruce’s side.

No. The two rich tycoons would be having a one on one little chat and soon. But for now….

For now, it’s time to pay attention to Cleo and Aria.


End file.
